Doctor's advice
by earlgreydude
Summary: Law never liked boundaries, not even the ones death sets.


This is bad and I should feel bad

* * *

He isn't sure what to make of the sounds.

This steady beeping and shifting of fabric on fabric. He also isn't sure if he wants to laugh because there's another sound, a constant beating, low and steady and somewhere very close and maybe, perhaps, it's in his chest but that's impossible ( he knows that by heart – hah, yes, he now definitely wants to laugh because this is indeed impossible as his heart is long gone.)

He shifts, and feels his eyelids flutter as light hits the sensitive skin and no, maybe he should just forget about it and go back to sleep. Only that sleep never was an option they gave him. They. He. The marine -

His eyes shoot open and pain immediately makes its way past his eyes exploding in his brain. Fuck his life. Maybe this wasn't one of his smartest ideas.

"Now, now. Relax. We don't want to destroy your precious brain again, do we."

He remembers the voice, low and thick as smoke, pregnant with venom. Still amused in a way, and he's definitely sure he doesn't even want to know the reason why. He moans in pain as he tries to take a look at the man stepping at his side.

"Took your sweet time, huh?"

He knows this man. Tall, painfully thin, dark bags underneath his eyes. He somehow expects a certain redheaded captain to be here as well but the room only smells of disinfectant and clean bedsheets and not of wet fur. He knows both – of course he does, who doesn't in this age – Kid and the Surgeon.

"Come, come. As I see it, your vocal chords work just fine. Almost kept them as they were so ... beautifully thick when I took a look.". Well, he either has a really, really fucked up dream, or this psycho really stands next to him looking like someone having a nice chat about the weather and not about the inner parts of his body. "They'd have looked good in my collection." Definitely a dream – hopefully.

"What... the hell am I doing here." His voice sounds raspy and his throat hurts but at least the man next to him was right, it's there and he can use it.

He hears the man standing next to the operation table chuckle ( fuck, this really is an operation table. Where the hell is he) as a cold hand comes to lie on his stomach. Bare stomach. Fuck, this either is a really bad hangover or just, well... his luck.

"If I was you I'd show a little gratitude." Long, impossibly cold fingers make their way up to his chest just to linger on top of his skin. Ace's stomach almost turns upside down when he can no longer see a dark gaping hole but skin that isn't his own, scars over scars covering the parts of his chest that have been destroyed by fire and magma.

"At least I've been so nice to dig you up and disturb your beauty sleep."

It all comes back in an instant. Images of fire and ash, marines and pirates, his father, blood, so much blood, his brothers, magma, Luffy-

"Fuck."

The low chuckle hits his oversensitive ears again, and he can't imagine one single person in this world liking this sound. Creepy, is all what comes to his mind.

"Language, Ace. Language."

He hates this, he doesn't understand, the cold fingers on his chest creep him out and – just, fuck it all.

A surprisingly strong hand pushes him back into his bedsheet, keeping him in check with an ease that both annoys him and surprises him greatly. "No moving in the first two days, Firefist Ace. Doctor's advice."

Fuck Doctor's advice. "I need to see my brother."

"Oh he's fine. Just left my ship a few weeks ago."

What.

Law seems to understand his utterly confused look Ace's brothers always cracked up about or he was just expecting something along the line.

"You're not the only one who wrecks his body more than it's good for him."

Questions over questions lying on the tip of his tongue he just can't find it in himself to actually voice them out aloud because holy shit, no. Not this. That one is huge!

"No. No, no, no, no way in he-"

Law – busy preparing the syringe – shoots him a rather bored look. "I'm afraid that's rather not up to you."

It hurts, and the surgeon looks a little too pleased, and Ace hates his life a little more.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine in a few weeks. We get your muscles moving again, those precious stiff darlings." Someone likes his profession a little too much, it seems. And parts of Ace's body, too.

Fuck it all, he doesn't have a chance anyway – at least not at the moment as he can't even feel his limbs properly. So he sulks at the syringe stuck into his arm and sinks back again, trying to get at least a little bit more comfortable in this, well... bed.

"He... killed me."

"And you don't understand."

"No shit, sherlock."

That low chuckle really creeps him out. Like smoke, or venom. Deadly poison and why the fuck is he even here.

"You can thank me later."

"With what."

"A favour."

"Hah, I don't think so."

If the chuckle is creeping him the fuck out, he doesn't even want to mention the lazy wink with which the surgeon removes the syringe in one swift movement.

It must be his luck. Or a bad hangover, he really isn't sure. Perhaps even a really fucking weird dream because the next thing he sees is the surgeon's face merely three centimetres away from his face and wow, ok, no, that's so not happening. He's heavier than he looks, sitting in his lap and all – ok fuck that it's not even funny anymore.

Tattooed fingers take his chin in a deadly grip and all he can do is stare dumbfounded into dark grey eyes. "I could keep you, you know. Letting you entertain me. You know, weeks on the sea without an island in sight sure can be quite boring. But you know that already, do you."

He really doesn't want to be here.

"… I could remove your kneecaps. Wouldn't it just be glorious if you could never get up again. Ah, I'd sure love that view."

No really, he wants to run. Or drink himself into oblivion because what. the. fuck.

"But", fuck Law's chuckle and wink, his smile is it that finally makes his skin crawl. "… be glad you're not my type." Not sure what's happening, all he can do is watch the surgeon get up again, leaving him laying on the operation table. It takes some effort to follow the surgeon's steps to the door. Elegant, almost lazy movements – just like he had all the time in the world obviously enjoying himself.

"Don't move, I've got an eye on you. And do not forget..."

He doesn't even want to hear it. Really. He just... no. Tattooed knuckles switch off the light, leaving him surrounded by darkness and the steady beeping of the machines all around him.

"Your new heart needs some time to adjust so if I was you I wouldn't try pulling any tricks."


End file.
